


Lush

by brittlelimbs



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cousin Incest, F/M, First Time, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kylo Ren and Rey Are Related, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Pining, meet me in hell, yup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 23:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7954000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben Solo pops his knot on an overcast April afternoon.</p><p>COMPLETE!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> debated on posting this for a while, but fuck it. there are worse things in the world.

Ben Solo pops his knot on an overcast April afternoon.

 

He'd felt peculiar all day; making it through 7th period Lit without falling asleep at his desk was already hard enough as is, slumped in the back of the class with the rest of the fuck-ups. The losers. The sorta-kinda technical-school stoners, floating in their pungent cloud; his crowd. 

He’d been hunched over at the too-small surface of his too-small desk, huffing , feeling itchy and touchy--more so than usual-- for no explicable reason at all. A whining in his blood, like his body was rainy season come early, circulatory system all full-up with cicadas. 

_ The fuck _ . 

He cuffed one wrist with his hand, rubbing, as the teacher waxed poetic about farmers or some shit, trying to suss out why his skin was laced too tight. The neck of the girl in front of him bobbed gently. Her hair was blonde and brittle, scooped up into a high ponytail, and there was acne creeping up from beneath the collar of her shirt like studded, angry stars.

 

_ And there was so much motion to it,  _ read the teacher, millions upon millions of miles away.  _ The country seemed, somehow, to be running.  _

 

The girl wrote something in her notebook. Ben, as if waking, realized he could smell her shampoo. 

 

Strange. He teeth clacked together, trap-tight, and when he swallowed he was suddenly over-aware of his tongue lolling in his mouth, the acrid tang of his spit. He shivered in his hoodie, rolling up one sleeve to scratch the tender skin at the crook of his elbow, pluck the vain. His nails were too long. 

His shoes were too small.

His head was too full of fog to track a lesson on a book he hasn't read in a class he didn't care about, a game of hooky he should've played but hadn't. He was sick, he thought, wanting to laugh; how often Mom had roused his ass for school despite the pled excuse of flu or fever, barking him awake as she flew out the door to her shiny company car. No hand on his forehead needed. She knew his tells. 

On those mornings, the tough ones, where the world seemed over-big to Ben’s middle school self, Rey would come play nurse. Backpack slung over one shoulder, shirt buttoned one buttonhole off so her whole frame looked crooked, offering soft comfort in the fleeting, secret window before her bus came to take her to the local elementary school.  

Ben always pulled up the covers over his head when he heard her padding down the hall, only because he knew she’d pull them down again; she’d leap, tiny and stealthy as a cat, into the little lapped well of the covers beside his body and peel away his batman duvet. Her kisses were hot, quick, all over his forehead and cheeks and chin, lips, sometimes, if she missed, and as sweet as the day is long. 

_ You're gonna be late _ , he'd say, laughing just a little as she nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck, laying down against his side like she was made fit to it. 

Rey, serious, always:  _ I don't wanna walk alone _ . 

He always pushed her off, anyways, and made her. 

High school, now, and no time for things so sweet. Sophomore-senior gap, tenuous and chafing, pressed and rubbing right up against each other as if making to spark. Sometimes: catch. 

 

Everything is too fast. He clips the short way round to the student lot once the final bell rings, sneakers slapping loud on the shiny linoleum. Head tucked down, jostling a few shoulders and getting a handful of shouted  _ hey’s  _ as he push-stumbles past, too-big body uncertain and ungainly in every way, save one:  _ home _ . 

 

He needs to get home, right now. 

 

The wet gravel of the lot crunches under his feet. It takes him three tries to get the key into the ignition of his junky Toyota, his hands are shaking so badly. He knows what this is. The beast pacing in his belly is much too hot to tell himself it's a flu, a bug, fucking  _ mono _ \--it's not. 

He has to pull over twice on the way home for fear of committing vehicular manslaughter in snail-slow traffic, vision starting to go a little blurred around the edges, hands reflexively clenching and unclenching on the wheel in little haywire jerks. 

He’s going crazy; when he gets to the hardware store at 5th and Morrison, knee jiggling in the footwell at the stop sign, sky spitting on his windshield, he debates the pros and cons of just going rogue, toughing out his rut-- because that's what this is, blunt as anything-- parked on a gravel drive somewhere outside of town. Private, almost-perfect. He thinks he still has some Gatorade bottles in the trunk from one of Rey’s meets; he’d survive. 

Dad would bite his head off, maybe, but Ben knows: anything would be better than going home, going to  _ her,  _ like this. He shudders. The old-dread sweat rolls down the back of his neck; He’s anticipated his rut long enough to feel sick at the thought.

He nearly takes left-turn salvation until it occurs to him, ludicrously, that he has nothing to slick himself with. He pulses against the rough denim of his Levi's, already chafing, already needy. 

He takes the right turn home. 

 

Rey’s lounging in the living room when he stumbles in. He starts:  _ right _ . Early release today. Shit. She boosts up, tips her head upside down to watch as he throws the front door closed and toes off his shoes, long, brown hair spilling down the back of the couch. He has to look away quickly; she’s afforded him the perfect view of the lush cleavage, peeking out from the stretched-loose neck of one of his old T-shirts. 

On most days, he can deal. But today, this-- too much. 

He tosses his backpack aside, trying to see through the haze, center himself on the  _ thunk  _ of textbooks on hardwood. Calculus, Spanish, US history. No APs, and too few; the sound is not heavy enough and rings dull, ineffectual. 

“Hey,” she says, and  _ oh,  _ he realizes, dim. He should probably distract  _ her.  _

He beats away rapturous visions of her crawling into his arms to nurture and slake with a shake of his head. 

“Hey. Could you, um--” he swallows, already circumnavigating the couch on his way to his bedroom, trying his best to look like he's not running from her. “Could you call mom for me? I feel like shit. ” 

A mortifying rivulet of sweat rolls down his jaw. He bets he looks like a maniac, hair mussed, eyes wild, stalking around his cousin as he makes a beeline for some kind of relief, or escape, or place that doesn't smell like her completely (creosote and sage). 

“Ben?” He hears her sit up. He can read the worry in her voice so easy, well versed in her dialects. He glances back, Orpheus, breath held, even though she can probably smell his rut already; damned before he’s begun. 

She’s lazy-mussed and full of typical after-school-Rey lassitude. His shirt, an old Futurama thing with Bender grinning on the chest, junior-high relic, swallows her right up, tiny shorts barely peeking out from beneath her tucked-in legs. A doe, folded delicately on exhausted couch cushions as if she’d alighted there, perfect as anything. He can't meet her eyes, doesn’t want to, then remembers, too late, as he looks long over those golden legs: everything’s dangerous. One sock is rucked up higher than the other, mismatched and clumsy on her slim calf, and the sight of that, only that, hits Ben harder than he thought possible. 

 

_ Baby girl _ . 

 

Oh, fuck.

 

He doesn't quite  _ run  _ the rest of the way to his room, queasy on sea-sick legs, but it's a close thing. 

 

Sweaty palm on cool, slick brass: he can barely turn the knob, already unbuttoning his fly with one hand by the time he’s through his bedroom door, anxious for relief. His rut eats at him. Ravenous, head and heart and cock, the last tenuous holdfasts of control utterly spent. He wouldn't stop, even if she came in-- especially if she came in---  _ stop--  _ he quickly throws the curtains closed and shucks free of his jeans with a grim efficiency, determined, through the fever, to ride this out.

He flops onto the duvet, one hand starting to wrangle him free of his boxers, the other going to his cock when it pops up against his belly, flushed and filling. 

He could cry with how good the hand on his dick feels, too much, too not-enough. The sudden relief packs a wallop that nearly punches the air from his heaving chest and leaves him gasping like a fish. In a moment of lurid curiosity he presses the bunched fabric of his boxers to his nose and mouth, taking an indulgent inhale. The scent is stronger, spicier, even to his own nose, his alpha articulating itself beyond a doubt. His cock twitches against his belly; he wonders how he’d smell to an omega. 

How an omega smells to him.

He starts a steady, stroking rhythm. He wants to get the job done quickly. This dissolves, fast, hand going frantic and mouth gasping open as the base of his cock starts to prickle; this, too is new. His knot. His alphahood, his gender. Made to fuck and fill, stick an omega tight and make them come on nothing but his cock, bear his children. 

Everything is riding right on the edge of thrilling and terrifying and Ben’s getting gone on the feeling so, so fast. He starts to fuck his fist in earnest, thumbing off a bead of thick precum and bringing it bravely to his lips to taste himself, grossed-out and fascinated. He groans at the taste before he can stop himself; bitter and fertile and strong. He’s anxious now, and he chases his orgasm recklessly, groping out with foggy hands for fantasies to build on. 

Safe ones, normal ones. Things that won't bow and break him under the weight of their guilt. He strokes himself faster, and between the toe-curling waves of pleasure, he grimaces, trying to think of emptying himself in Hux like this. 

Brendol Hux is a thirsty little slut; the kind of omega that Ben feels like he should be infatuated with in this context. Lithe body, pert ass, plush, cupid’s bow lips: the works. They’d fooled around a few times this year, a blowjob or two in the boy’s bathroom during lunch, the ordinary kind of shit he’d allegedly put out for the half of Order High that had a dick, but nothing more. Ben’d asked shyly if he could fuck him, next time, leaned back against the tile wall with jelly legs and colored cheeks, the dark and shameful hope that it  _ might  _ be close enough to what he really needed, if he closed his eyes, burning low in his belly--

Hux’s head had risen from his softening cock with a  _ pop _ , eyes too blue as he looked up at Ben from under his lashes, sneered: 

_ When you have a knot, find me.  _

 

Ben heard somewhere that he’ll scream on your cock. 

 

He fantasizes, briefly, about nailing him in that same dirty bathroom stall, his hands holding slender hips flush to his own. Thrusting with abandon and the make-believe intent to claim this whore, this worn-used, filthy  _ rag _ that half of Order had come inside. Rutting Hux again and again until it took. 

Ben’s hand slows on his dick, cringing at the thought. No, the hips in his grip are much too soft and sweet for something so cruel. He imagines how strong his fingers would look, denting into the deliciousness of that curvature, thumbs stroking up the velveteen skin on the small of a slim, golden back. 

Somewhere far away, Ben vaguely feels his hand speed up again, molten heat between his legs burning in his palm, too far gone and falling impossibly further. 

The plunge is scorching. 

He’d take her in her bed, he thinks, deliriously. Between her sheets, soft and nubbly and printed with stupid little frogs, the ones she’s had since she turned eight. He’d take her in the lake upstate, brisk and shivering, tiny bikini bottoms pushed aside as she squirmed. He’d take her on a blanket, under the relentless stars that had watched them grow up close, closer still; didn't matter, so long as it was somewhere worthy of her perfection. 

 

Because that’s what she is. Perfect. Not Hux. An attraction inevitable and accrued over years of glimpsed, tan belly buttons, tiny slivers of flushed skin, reaching and stretching and growing more lovely in his eyes with each year as it passed. Mom and Dad and Uncle Luke there but peripheral entirely, just extras shouting in the background of the fucked-up film that is his life, secondary to her, always. Secondary to the girl who slept with her head in his lap, bit at his heels. Who looks more like him and less like him with every passing month, sloping lovely into to curves of her own personhood, something Ben pines to covet. 

Rey: blood of his blood.

_ Cousin.  _

His knot swells instantly as he comes, magnifying up into the tight tunnel of his fist. Ben squeezes his eyes shut so tightly he sees stars, the impression of her printed permanent on the backs of his lids. 

He  _ keeps coming _ . He realizes that his body is looking for a receptacle, a womb to fill; some strange, new alpha part of him is frustrated to see so much of his seed wasted like this on his belly. The same part wants to spread it on Rey’s skin so that she might smell like him, feed it to her mouth and cunt, fuck her silly with it. He groans. Another hot rope nicks his chin. He gropes around, panting, then smothers his dick with a pillow. 

 

Fucked up, he is. Knot head. He half-prays that she’ll find him, curled around himself, shivering as he rides out the best orgasm of his entire life and waits for the next round of his rut to hit. 

Ben Solo, grade-A freak, hollowed and dirty and not yet satisfied for missing that one, heaven- forbidden piece--

  
  
  


Rey’s heat comes that summer, in the drowsy depths of August. 


	2. I Sent Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey's first heat. 
> 
> Warnings for underage sexual activity and mentions of non-con.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listened to Black Beatles by Rae Sremmurd on repeat while writing this l o l
> 
> plz dont crucify me

They're swimming.

 

Poe and Finn look like seals way out in the lake, heads slick and dark against the reflective chop that makes Rey squint when she tries too hard to look at them. She plucks at the tight strap on her pink bikini top and rests her chin further into the cradle of her sunburnt arms, whisping up the corner of the magazine in front of her with her breathing. She wants to join them, but can't; she’s felt a little funny all day, couldn't tell you precisely why.

They’ve been at the lake since morning. It’s the glittering tail end of a wet, hot summer filled to brimming with boy and girls and other wonderful things, weeks of trembling uncertainties to be tripped into and savored. Explored, month on month. June: Rey shivers to think of the sweltering, secret day after hurdle training when Jess Pava had hiked her little hands up under Rey’s sports bra and _felt_ in the shady space behind the bleachers. July: Coming home, sugar from Finn’s papery vanilla cone still sticky on her lips, and accidentally walking in on Ben fucking a boy in his bedroom. Russet hair, just a glimpse, covers drawn up over the bed beneath them as if to hide the evidence of their joining. Ben’s face was flushed and there was hair plastered to his forehead with effort and Rey felt on fire instantly, hand clapped over her mouth and eye at the clandestine slot between door and jamb.

 

August, now, and she hasn't stopped burning since.

 

“Hey!”

 

Poe’s voice rings out against the beach and spindly, dry pine trees all banked around their little cove like protective hands, echoing a bit. Rey’s chin jerks up and she sees both of them, tiny faced and nearly indistinguishable, watching her from the water. Poe waves his arm and she waves back.

 

“We have any—left?” he asks. She can’t quite catch what he’s saying; suddenly the sun is _so strong_ and her heart is pounding in her head, in her throat and ears.

 

“ _What?_ ” She can feel her diaphragm pushing into the sand with the force of her yelling.

 

“Beer!” Finn shouts, starts to make a bottle-tipped-swigging motion with one hand as he treads water with the other, _Budweiser_ written in international sign language. “We got any left?”

 

 _Oh._ Rey shimmies over on her belly and elbows to pop the lid of the cherry-red cooler, still a little proud and a little embarrassed that they even brought some to drink, the six-pack hard-swindled from the shade of the Dameron’s garage. Her hand plunges in: two cold, glassed bottles still left, couched in the slurry of ice half-melted ice and lime popsicles. The sudden dip in temperature is intense, feels good, inviting her to keep her hand inside.

 

She holds up a victorious two fingers instead, icewater rolling down her wrist.

 

They hoot and swim in.

 

Rey passes her friends both their bottles once they’ve slogged ashore, biting her chapped lips when Poe quirks a smile at her as a sweet-sly thank you. He’s older, _Ben’s year_ , but grew up two doors down; the Damerons had raised her as much as anyone, fences hopped and summertimes shared together, her and Poe somehow always getting along just peachy even as Ben drifted slow and sure away to other things. Not-good things; Poe becoming her ever-faithful bus stop guardian, instead, over the years. Her rock to beat against.

 

He shakes his head like a dog and Rey yelps as lakewater dapples her beach towel and the backs of her thighs. Finn smacks his shoulder.

 

Poe pops the cap on his bottle with a clink and a hiss, tossing the opener down on the sand. Rey wants to squirm and marvel at the ease of it: watching him tip his head back to take a long, generous pull, water beading and running down the column of his golden throat—that does a hell of a lot to reconcile _childhood friend_ with _crush_. He’s beautiful. She can't deny the heat between her legs as she watches him turn his back on her, every line of his body screaming new alpha, legs boxed wide as if confidence flows through him naturally. As if his cock is too big in his soaking, orange swim trunks to hang otherwise.

Rey’s stomach flips.

He’s gorgeous, but worst or maybe best of all: his long, dark hair. Grown out enough that he's let it lick around his earlobes, clinging down the back of his neck with lakewater and plastering his curls slick, flat. Height’s all wrong and tan’s all wrong and the hip-slung cockiness is something _he_ would never be, but the long, dark hair is _right_ and that's all it takes to push Rey right over that incisive, tripwire edge.

 

Strong, wide back and jet-dark hair. Pure, wet heat.

 

_Ben._

 

Rey is mewling, pressing her face deep into her forearms like the scent of sunscreen and the red-glow rosiness of her squeezed shut eyelids can somehow shield her her from her biology. But it can't: she can feel each ginger brush of her tiny bikini bottoms against the wetness budding there, swimsuit material excruciatingly shiver-smooth.

 

At once, decisively: Omega. Finn’s lips are moving. She’s _Omega_. Finn’s lips are still moving. The noon-sun is too hot, he won't shut up, and it takes her a few stupefied seconds to realize that he’s talking to her.

 

“— doin’ okay?” He’s got the bottle paused halfway to his lips, goofy-looking.

 

 _No_ , says her gut. Her endocrine system screams in agreement, all her hormones and chemistry, the intricate internal clock ticktickticking for the very first time with the same forcefulness it must have held within her when she first was born. Fresh. Rey is vigorously alive, and it hurts to the point of panic. She can smell Finn, too, in new ways she couldn't before, scented soft and sweet like her. A sudden reminder of how he presented, last spring.

_You’re O, Finn?_

He asks again, and she nods anyways, looking anywhere but Poe. If she looks at Poe she’s not entirely sure what’s going to happen. Best to hunker down, wait this out somehow—she gulps down a terrified moan, thinking of the two cramped hours in Finn’s tiny Volkswagen it took to get here and the two it’ll take to get back. She’s not gonna make it.

 

“Rey?” Poe’s noticed something’s up, of course he has, plush lips paused open with concern. He’s crept much closer, now, and Rey knows rationally that he hardly stacks higher than her on the doorjamb of their livingroom but that doesn’t matter because, in this epiphany, he’s so, so huge in the most instinctual way possible. He shakes the water from his hair and he looks—smells, fuck—like fallow soil, or a blank slate. Something half-done and itching with the very idea of being _unfinished._ Rey remembers the satisfaction of stubborn algebra problems she’s worked to completion, or the bliss of slaking the summer humidity on the sweet slush and pulpy stick of a rocket pop. Poe starts to reach out for the crook of her knee, looking, for all intents and purposes, like the most pleasurable equation Rey has ever encountered, and o _h, shit_. She’s literally _fucked_.

Someone’s clothes are strewn beside her on the sand, and before there’s space for breath, she’s scrambling into a tanktop and shorts, trying, clumsily, to get more layers on before this beautiful, powerful alpha catches a lungful of her desperation.

“ _Rey_ ,” he says again. She has to wrestle through his subvocals.

“M’ fine, just gotta.”

The shorts chafe her thighs and the tank top has sand in it. It yanks at her bun as she pulls her head through the neckhole, and she can feel hair fraying down the back of her neck.

No time for flip-flops, no time for her bag. As Uncle Han used to say: she needed to be twenty miles gone, yesterday.

 

The gravel bites into the soft soles of her feet as she stumbles up the draw and towards the black copse of trees. Blessedly, her body remembers, somewhere in its confusion, that she’s a runner, conditioned well for sprinting under the pride of Order High’s black and red; she feels her breath rise with her pace and her heart jumps to a manageable quickness as she starts to find a stride. There is no red-rubberized track, her spikes are gone, and the trees greet her with whip-slash boughs when she meets them, but she goes on. Uncertain plans to leave or escape, insane ploys to cut free-bird and run, run forever, slip right into the woods and past them, are skittering across her mind quick as the shooting stars they watched the night before. The hood of Finn’s car was warm beneath all three of them as they watched, bundled and content with their view and their company. It was good. There’s the car now, and she could cry and the sight: beige and ugly and reliable, parked in the middle of a tiny clearing of matted-down grass and pine needles.

 

She passes it. She feels insane.

 

The armpits of the tank top—must be Finn’s, big blue surfer on the front—flap around her heaving ribs as her heart beats silly with every horrific story she’s ever read or heard, seen on TV. OMEGA RAPE CASE. OMEGA MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD. The little printed etching in her biology textbook of a feral omega woman, crouched low over her swollen belly, naked, hewn scraggled and raw by a life in the Appalachians. They still find them sometimes, says the news. Pairings that go native. She wonders if they’d find her and Poe.

 

Suddenly, she can see that future, half-hidden and lurking behind the next thicket as she sprints through it, a thin-armed spectre cupping her belly, full of child. Poe’s first, or second, maybe; _he’ll get you knocked up tonight_ , something in her cries giddily, frothing over her speed and her fear, and the wetness grows between her legs with the truth of it. She shakes her head. This other Rey smiles at her dreamily, filthy, pregnant, glowingly happy with the glazed-over look of a broodmare, the raw satisfaction of being knotted till she’s drunk and near-blind with it. Fucked up.

 

The poster child of the dropout Omgea.

 

There’s a few in every grade, Mr. Plutt always griped, the dumb ones that hit their heat wrong and end up with a rush-job mate and a rush-job pup, or two, before graduation—if they even get their diploma. Scandalously young and hopelessly addicted to their alpha’s knot, pushed past point of all reason, going belly up despite parental fury and schoolyard bullying, the cries of a society horrified at the sight of pregnant teenagers in graduation gowns: O-Fever. She’s heard the alphas in her class whisper about this with reverence. The sickness of knowing nothing but the pleasure and heaviness of being bred.

Poe would keep her that way, she knows, _bred_ , tied on the fat cock in his swim trunks that she's only imagined but now aches to fuck, and a bead of slick rolls down her thigh beneath her shorts before she can stop it.

 _Disgusting!_ This is her, unabashed, the suburbs stripped out and the culture pressed clean, barely sixteen and pining with the hard-coded need to be yielding and full. The children she’ll have with Poe are beautiful, she knows, hair curling thick and dark against their golden cheeks, and Rey screams at the image of them.

 

The not-Rey shushes her. Whispers a truth right into her her horror, her revulsion, with a sick sweetness: _Because they’re not Ben’s._

 

Rey screams again.

 

Her feet stub on something, hard, gouging deep in their soft flesh. She doesn't know what she wrecked them against but it doesn't matter because she can't really feel them, anyways. She stumbles. When Poe overtakes her in the next split-second, the feeling of his broad body around her like something quick and molten, all she can feel is resigned; he was never far behind her in the first place. State contender in the 400, and she’ll never outrun this.

They hit the dirt, Poe going first, taking the hit hard on his shoulder. Rey squeezes her eyes shut and nearly bites through her own tongue as they rattle around for a moment, but she’s intact: where Rey runs track, Poe plays linebacker. She is suddenly very, horrifically aware that, knothead or no, he could snap her in two if he craved it, and the thought makes her ridiculously wetter where his legs are tangled between hers. He could pin her without even trying, she marvels.

He grunts.

“Rey—?” His chest is pressed against her shoulder blades and spine, both of them heaving with exertion, and she can feel the wuff oh his breath against the intimate inch at the nape of her neck. It feels lovely; before she can think she’s craning her forehead into the dust, trying to give him access to bite, to have her, to _claim_ —

The warm weight of Poe is gone. For a moment, Rey is too surprised to roll over and search for him.

“The fuck, man?” Finn cries, somewhere far away.

Both of their shuffling feet, cut-up and sap-sticky: she looks up, and he’s got Poe in a hold on his shoulder and bicep, rough, like he’s handling some sort of wild animal. Poe honest-to-God _growls_ , and for a moment, Rey’s half-sure that he really will go feral, damn Finn, damn her, until he takes a few staggering steps backward, lip curling up in disgust. She can see where Poe’s gone stiff-straight in his shorts, starting to press out at the waistband with the insistence of his cock. He’s achingly hard for her, and that’s his arousal she smells, isn’t it? Spicy and strong.

 

She's on her knees. She's not sure when this happened. The thatch of needles and loam beneath her forearms is dusty and fragment as she pushes herself up, up, and down, down, until the curve of her spine feels just right to alleviate the deep, warm throb of her need.

 

“Rey? What the _fuck_ are you doing!” Finn sounds like he's losing his mind, and Rey’s entirely certain she is, too, ‘cause she's not quite sure what she’s doing, either; her body is forming itself of its own accord, reacting, as if electrified, to the sight scent of an aroused alpha that's nearly close enough to touch.

She’s _presenting_ , thinks some distanced part of her. It doesn't matter, anymore, that it's Poe. That she's known this boy since he was five, watched him learn to tie his shoes, then watched as he taught her how to tie her own in turn. The boy who walked her to school with his snacks in her pockets so she wouldn't get hungry before lunch. Who was there in every fucking place Ben _wasn't—_ And here she is. Tucked down coquettishly with her ass in the air, making her virgin cunt look as appealing as possible so he’ll decide it’s the only thing he’ll want to bury himself in for the rest of his life.

 _You want to be his,_ says the smart part, blithely observant.

 _You must be his,_ says the fevered part, dizzy and blood-hot.

 _No_ , thinks another part, that dark part, that sin. _Not his to have_.

“Poe,” she croaks traitorously, head hanging low between her shoulders as she turns to find him again. She feels another pulse of warm slick well up, spill.

“Poe.”

 

Finn’s got him pinned shakily up again a pine, now, trembling against each other, both of their eyes looking nowhere but her. Poe’s absolutely slack-jawed at the sight. He groans, whiskey-low, and Finn has to jar him once, again, hard enough that Rey can hear his teeth clack together.

This seems to help: Poe looks down and his eyes go wide as dinner plates, as if noticing his own hard-on for the first time, like a baby as it becomes aware that it can use its own hands.

 

“No,” he moans, rolling his head back and forth against the bark in abject misery. “No, no no. She's like my little sister, dude, I swear—oh, Christ, this is so fucked up.”

 

Something inside her that’s deep-held and brittle snaps, then, and the tears rise, sourceless, salty and confusing. Her wetness is still trembling against empty air; this alpha _doesn’t want her_. She’s ugly, or fucked up, unable to bear children, maybe. The fever makes it hard to tell. She mewls into the dirt and boxes her knees wider and she pops her hips up in a way that feels appealing and natural. Surely, any alpha would know, now. Surely, somebody _(Ben—yes—no—_!) will come and take her.

 

There is no way to articulate this terror. She thinks she might be crying, or neatly falling apart, soft flesh falling from bone. Her body is doing its best, pumping out slick and hormones and sorryscent for all it's worth, but it isn't enough, it's stupid, it's _useless—_

 

 _Rey_ , Poe cries out. His voice is a wreck, hoarse with all the confusion of their mutinous bodies, hovering too-close to tumbling over into this thing, nothing but Finn and the dirt as a boundary them. The hate this. They need this.

 

_Rey._

 

Rey turns open her heart and looks at the guts of it. They're fevered and tired, aching for something too wrong to articulate.

She looks inside and finds heartbreak, that that she has nothing to say.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be continued!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UNDERAGE INCESTUOUS DUBCON AHEAD FOLKS 
> 
> surprise motherfuckers one billion years later i came back to finish this shit
> 
> unbeta'd

There was one time that Rey was sick driving home from a car camping trip as a kid. Little, hazy-aged, packed in the stuffy back of Aunt Leia’s Subaru as they slalomed down the alternative route that Uncle Han insisted was half an hour faster than the highway, trust him on it. Hairpin turns plus a cheap hot dog someone had snuck her from the Kwik Trip for lunch equaling nauseated Rey, white knuckling the seatbelt strap and staring hard out the window until Ben, backseat buddy, jostled her shoulder and asked if she was ok. She didn’t answer; she wasn’t. They had made it to the wide, grassy bowl of farmland that sits beneath the mountains, the part where the highway always flattens itself and widens out considerably, and then--- _Aunt Leia?_ They had to pull over. She puked up her lunch in a ditch beside the road while Aunt Leia held her hair and Ben watched them and Uncle Han watched the rural traffic rip by their car, hazards flipped on, two doors propped open.

The rest of the trip had been spent with the windows cranked down _to get some fresh air_ , said Leia, Rey’s tears and snot drying on her cheeks in the buffeting wind. Ben offered her his water bottle. She curled up around the hugeness of it in her hands, feeling dizzy, embarrassed, wanting to be anywhere else and wishing away the hours home.  

 

This is like that, but different. Worse.

 

Finn has all of the windows cranked down as much as you can when you’re doing eighty down a sketchy highway without making the inside of the car pulse terribly with the air pressure. He’s driving like Rey’s seen people drive in movies, the bad ones with poorly cut car chases that last too long, shoulders bunched up to his ears and hands locked at ten and two on the wheel, scenery speeding away behind like a set. She’s exhausted just looking at him. Poe’s like a fucking statue in the passenger seat, eyes closed, nose and mouth pushed up to the open crack in the window and breathing deliberately so he looks like he’s drowning; probably is, considering the way Rey smells ripe enough to split.

Her hair’s been whipped into a birds nest where it peeks out above the heavy quilted blanket heaped on top of her. The old giant Finn keeps in his trunk for picnics and chilly Friday night football games, which they had laid down on a woodsy slope to nap on just days ago, dry pine needles and burrs everywhere. Finn had wrapped her up like a burrito and tossed her in the back seat, stopping her from trying to rut on his leg, while Poe paced and ground his teeth outside. His alpha dick stood proud in his swim trunks, like he was ready to bust out of them. _Gotta get some layers on her,_ Finn told him _. Trap the scent in. I don’t know._

Cause how the fuck would he know? Sex Ed curriculum lying useless in the bottom of all their brains at the moment, diagrams and worksheets not doing much in the face of _oh shit, my friends are going to potentially rape each other, oh fuck._ Mrs. Mothma’s lectures about omegan birth control holding nothing on thousands of years of biology that’re saying Rey needs to get Poe’s dick in her, stat.

But the fresh air and separation _had_ helped. Once Finn had gotten them on the road and it was clear that Poe wasn’t in danger of climbing into the back seat, things seemed nearly bearable.

Sort of.

Rey grasps her phone in her sweaty palm, swaying in and out of lucid thought as the mile markers tick by in white flashes, coarse roar of the highway drowning out all conversation. Not that they’d have any; there’s not much to say.

She needs—she needs. Just as an abstracted, whole body sort of thing that makes all the times she’s rubbed one out before bed, thinking of nebulous shapes, tits or dicks or whatever, feel like a fleeting flush. Her bikini bottoms have long been soaked through; beneath the blanket is a molten pocket of slick and sweat that’s swamped the space between her thighs so thoroughly that they slip against each other whenever she moves. Each shift makes her cunt scream for friction, for fullness. But the last-lap part of her, the steely thing that let her place in state her freshman year, keeps her still.

They go over another pothole, jostling her, and she knows, deep in her gut, that the need is becoming honed: he needs-- him. She needs her cousin, more than anything else. She feels another gush of slick rise at the sketched thought of his strong arms, big hands. Moles spattered like paint flecks on his face and chest.

 

She unlocks her phone. She knows the route they’re driving easily and through all seasons, where what turns are and where the bald patches from windstorm-blowdowns are and when to anticipate the hill that’s too steep, which makes her stomach flutter with weightlessness every time they fly through it. She knows they’ll come back into service soon. She should text Aunt Leia, or Uncle Han, even, every inch a safe-smelling beta. Her phone glows blue in her dark, humid cave beneath the blanket and she opens up her messages to Ben (heart emoji) and types:

 

_dont feel good_

She resurfaces while the message bar hovers in the middle, searching for a signal in the ether. They round a copse of trees in a flash, demarcating the property of a tiny yellow house with at least three different ancient Chevy husks sitting in the yard, and a hand-scrawled sign for elk jerky passes by too quickly to read. The texts slips into _sent_.

Ben’s reply pops up in a bubble of grey ellipsis before Rey even has a chance to look away, and she feels a little thrill in her stomach at the attention. Her left hand snakes down to the hot, forbidden plane of her lower belly and waits.

 

 _What’s wrong?_ She can imagine the way his brow folds when he’s worried about her. She inhales a deep breath through her nose, and fuck it. She types away with unsteady thumbs.

 

_heat. like omega heat_

He’s instantly calling her, the sound of the ringtone like shattering glass in the secret darkness of her tiny world. _Dummy!_ Rey mashes the red button, heart in her throat. To hear his voice now would be too much—she’d give her sickness away to her friends right away, drooling and needing for someone she, by all means, should not.

 

(There had been a small sub-chapter in the textbook Rey was supposed to read but hadn’t about familial attraction between alpha-omega pairs, drawing sibling to sibling or parent to child against all evolutionary odds. An unfortunate product of biology, but a negligible one. It had suggested therapy as a potential solution; barring that, eloping, though it was talked around in more palatable terms. Cousins—at least they have some different blood to mix between them.)

 

“Rey?” Finn. All front seat authority.

“s’ nothing,” she mumbles, resting her temple against the cool, vibrating glass of the window, typing back.

 

_dont call!!!!!_

 

_Why? What’s going on??_

_finn and poe r here._

_At the lake?_

_we left. poes alpha. it was bad. but its ok now,_ she adds on hurriedly, even if okay is only relative. Her hand rests heavily on the top of her pubic bone. The ellipses appear and disappear in several noncommittal bursts, until:

_I’ll kill him._

Rey worms in beneath her swimsuit and slips a finger inside herself while looking at the little black words. The idea of Ben fighting for her-- it’s frighteningly arousing, even as it revolts her. She starts to plunge in and out in shy, secretive little strokes that do nothing but bring the jitter and buzz in her belly to one consistent pitch. The omega in her is overjoyed to blissful shivering.

 

 _plz don't_ , she manages anyways.

 

_How close are you?_

_20 mins ish_

_Ok._

 

Rey almost thinks she can smell him she wants him so badly, the concentrated scent of him familiar, seeping out from his room all hours of the day like leaked perfume. Falling asleep layer by layer underneath the veil of it when they’d sit on the couch together and watch whatever schlock flick, her pick. Ben’s hands resting on her calves where they flopped over his thighs, handling her feet, potential there but never quite tipping over into it. The incest. Rey itching for him before she knew what itching meant, falling asleep to the furtive, constant whine and the black-white flicker of whodunit gore. Dreaming of wanting. Then drool on the couch cushion, snort-gasp waking as Uncle Han slammed the front door. Ben still sitting unmoving in the dark on his phone in front of the long-cold television so she could sleep, the crag of his long haired profile dimly lit but undeniably still there.

 

She touches herself, thinking of the weight of her arms on her shins, how his bottom lip looks when he rolls it into his mouth in concentration.

 

Time blurs until suddenly they’ve made it, the swing-wide left turn down the street where the Solo-Organa household lives feeling like home, the crunch of gravel drive and dapple of the stooped old oak tree against Rey’s rosy closed eyes solidifying their exact suburban longitude and latitude. But instead of relief, the knot she’s carried in her stomach clenches even tighter, forcing her to open her eyes: this is his place, his den, he must be so close to this spot because he’s always been waiting there—

And he _is_ there, standing on the front stoop like a menace in his stretched out basketball shorts and tired old t-shirt, all raised hackles. His hair looks greasy. Rey can see his eyes scanning for her in the back seat.

Ben graduated last spring, but isn’t in school. Hasn’t been doing much of anything at all, besides helping out in Han’s body shop part time. Barely educated, in the family’s eyes, and hardly employed. Spooky to see someone so directionless suddenly honed to a single objective, quick as galvanized metal: the Volvo hasn’t hardly slowed to a rolling stop before Finn barks _hey_ and there’s the incoming skitter of quick feet on gravel and the passenger door is being pried open like the tip of a knife working deftly at the seam of a tin. Two big hands heft Poe and his protests from the car with a low, pitchy rumble. Textbook young alpha aggression, ready in every inch of his body to claim a mate by blood, completely disorienting to Rey’s friends because Ben _should not be doing this_.

 

“Ben, Jesus, what the _fuck_ —“ Poe gets about two muffled words in edgewise before the body-heavy thud of his back hitting the side rocks the entire car on its suspension: Ben’s hooked him right in the jaw, hard. Rey gives a little shriek. Finn’s out of the car and rounding the hood, still humming, as she watches more blows fall, violence perfectly framed through the opposite window. Fist to cheek, knee to flank, scrabbling at each other with wordless fury, pummeling and heavy. Someone’s flesh hits the glass again with a meaty thump, and she thinks she sees blood, but it could just be the sinking sun on skin, or her own delirium.

There’s a sick sounding pop and suddenly Poe’s down, Rey’s heart plummeting just as hard, Finn shouting Poe’s name. Shouting for help. Ben rounds on the car. He looks different than he did this morning, feels different just in beholding him. Rey makes eye contact for one scalding moment through the dust-flecked window, face streaked with gold and opaque of meaning besides: how long have I fought against this, only to lose?

 

Rey shivers, blooming wetter on instinct. _Same_. Fuck.

 

“Ben,” she croaks, mouthing his name. “Please.” She’s not sure if she’s asking him to stop; to come forwards.

 

He rips the car door open on its heavy hinges easily. The scent is so overpowering that Rey’s eyes flutter shut for a second, fresh-ripe omega and unwashed sadboy alpha whooshing together in heady discourse, pheromones ratcheted up by fight-or-flight gone violent and possessive. Ben folds his tall body into the car and Rey’s already struggling to part and raise her legs despite the quilt, thoughtless, needing. Her omega says she could be bred right here, by him, and it would feel _wonderful_.

 

“Holy shit, Rey,” Ben breathes, staring, sounding awed and just enough like her grossed out cousin-cum-kinda-brother that the wrongness of it all shakes through her, rattling her beneath the blanket. Her toes squinch up as he takes her by her skinny ankles, and tugs her out to the edge of the bench seat so quickly that it hurts, sucking at her joints, the felt interior giving her butt rugburn as he peels her right out of the sodded blanket and into his arms. _Ben,_ her body screams, arms dangling slack and useless because she can’t decide whether she wants to hold him or push him away. _Ben!_ The warmish air of late noon is shocking against her bare skin and feels like a cold lick right up the wet spot between her legs; she gasps as he jostles her up into a bridal carry that keeps her close to his chest. He’s wearing an old Beck T-shirt that she’s worn a few times, too, used to be black but faded to dingy grey, smelling permanently of him, and the feeling of it chokes her; it’s like a million years ago, Ben taking her to the safety of their world under blankets on cold and sucky days, keeping her cuddled, even as it isn’t. He smells like hard arousal and someone else’s blood. Body clashing with memory.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

It’s Finn, crouched down in his flipflops by Poe’s prone, beautiful body, propped in the crabgrass at the base of the oak tree. Rey gives a little gasp. It’s disturbing, seeing him knocked down like that; like something statuesque inverted on its head, marble glory all scabbed up and scraped. Finn’s about fifty percent on the phone with someone and fifty percent helping Poe hold his wadded tank top to his face, cotton already dyed dark crimson and dripping down his chin. He’s struggling to breathe. Ben must’ve broken his nose, popped him a good one; done his face dirty. The omega in Rey is squirming with satisfaction. Ben won, and she’s the golden little trophy, feet not even allowed to touch the ground for fear of soiling her holiness.

 

“Finn?” Rey warbles, not sure what she’s asking for, looking at the blood on the gravel. This is real. Ben just did that, is _capable_ of that.

 

“Put her down!” Finn says, low, looking only at Ben as if Rey isn’t there. “She’s not in her right mind, man.” He sounds like he knows that he’s already lost, backed against a wall, and it makes a trickle of sick terror drip through Rey’s gut. He’s powerless to stop this.

 

Ben knows it, too. He just grunts and keeps walking, stooped porch steps creaking under their combined weight. Rey buries her face back into his chest, listening to Finn shout something along the lines of _I_ _called the police_ or maybe it was just I _called Leia_ as they head inside, screen-door squeak, slam. Effectively the same thing; she doesn’t know, doesn’t matter much.

 

She knows the route to his room by heart, having traced it hundreds of times, fingertips just trailing along the stucco walls in the dark until she had it memorized. He tosses her on his bed, which is part-made and strewn with miscellaneous shit. His sheets reek, a week past needing to be washed. She can smell how much he’s spent time jacking off here over the past few days, jerking his dick raw, alone in the fetid dark. He fucked Hux on these sheets, another omega—but Rey can’t find the anger in her because his scent’s long gone, overwhelmed by the general, primal smell of Ben’s body, and hers beneath it.

She’s free of him for a second as he leans back to paw his t-shirt over his head by the collar and she tries to scramble her knees to her chest instantly, half ready to make a break for it. Ben—imaging him inside her is simultaneously the hottest and worst thing that could happen. He’s coiled at the foot of the bed, need pulling the line of this broad shoulders taught, sweat starting to wink at his temples in the dusty light coming through the busted slat blinds.

He starts jerking down the elastic band of his shorts with one hand, and when she whimpers, he reaches out to grasp her ankle again with the other. “Shut up,” he grunts. “Stop moving.”

His dick is out. It’s about as beautiful as any teenage boy dick could be expected to be, base already slightly swollen he’s so turned on, gonna pop one without even getting it in her at this rate. Big, like his hands and feet and nose, passed down from the Solo side of things. He moves above her and the head already sits gingerly against the softness of her pussy, just on this side of slipping in. She looks up at him, and hates that she can see Uncle Han in the set of his eyes, dark hair all a-tangle.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he says, awe still coloring his voice. Then he starts to push, hands easily looped around Rey’s biceps to keep her from scooting away.

“ _Hurts_ —“ Rey gasps, cause it does, way bigger than anything else that’s ever been up there in her life and Ben knows it, but he keeps going. Piling in the inches. It’s a long, hot, excruciating press during which Rey’s sure she’ll fall apart, until it isn’t and she doesn’t; her omega is suddenly blissful at the fullness and she finds her ankles hooking around the small of his back to pull him closer. This is exactly what you’ve been looking for your entire life, something says. Ben’s cotton sheets are soaking through with slick beneath her ass, navy blue gone black.

Ben kisses her but it’s not even really kissing, it’s more like licking her mouth and pushing his spit into it, slobbering all over her chin, and it occurs to Rey that as far as she knows her cousin has kissed precisely very few people in his life. But the thought is pocketed, because things are doing primordial work on a chemical level. Spit to spit, alpha to omega.

“Fuck, Rey,” Ben says as he pulls away, sort of smiling and panting, chin shining, looking down to see where he’s sliding home into her like it’s a God-made miracle. “You’re taking it.” He gives one shallow thrust, then another, and he’s in to the hilt.

Rey comes. It’s overwhelming; millions of miles better than her own fingers, or the fumbling rubs over denim or yoga pants from other kids her age that she’s garnered over the past few months. Pava letting Rey rut into her hand couldn’t hold a candle to the way she’s flooding on Ben’s dick, shaking and shivering beneath him so hard she can’t see anything but the hair in her eyes, maybe hers, maybe Ben’s.

He fucks her like an animal, and in the lulls, with tenderness, as if the virginity he’s taking is something made paperleaf delicate, trembling at the edges, and he can’t decide if he wants to preserve it or shred it to pieces.

Suddenly, slows, then stops entirely and pulls out, and just the lack of him feels a little bit like dying. Rey barks in terror; her omega is instantly horrified at the possibility of being unwanted. But then he’s just flipping her over, propping her hips high and pushing her shoulders down: _The Lodoris Curve_ , printed in one of the readings she sort of skimmed in class, image provided below. Classical breeding position. The way she curved herself before Poe, what feels like millions of years ago. He slides home again and the new angle seems to satisfy something deep in Rey, his dick starting to punch little gasps out of her on every thrust as she grinds her face into the pillows.

The slap of his hips against her ass is ridiculously lewd. She’s half waiting for, _needing_ for, his mouth to go off-- _I’m gonna knock you up so deep you’re gonna be nothing but pregnant for years_ , every single corny alpha line that’s come across Rey’s plate over two years with a bunch of horndog high school kids. But he doesn’t. He just—fucks her, and it’s on the edge of satisfying some primal itch. _I’m having sex with Ben. We’re having sex_ , she manages to think, tongue and teeth tasting of the worn cotton as she bites down to keep from moaning. It’s mortifying. And then he’s slumping down on top of her to give the penultimate thrusts, jagged and desperate, hands on her hips as he mashes her bodily into the mattress, snorting like a horse.

 _Rey_. _Rey. Rey._

He bites her on the nape when he comes with a guttural moan, knot blooming full in a way that makes her come again around the girth of it as they’re locked together completely. Rey feels pleasure course through her as something in him knit itself to her, filaments of consciousness embracing each other, the bonding bite taking hold as his dull teeth bruise-break the thin skin of her neck. The sensation is turning something inside her, manhandling her heart so she’ll home towards him always—but, she thinks wearily, she already did.

They lay there in sweaty silence, for a moment, his cock still pushing load after load into her overfull womb. “Your body did this for me,” he finally whispers, breath making the hair on the back of Rey’s neck stand up. “I knew it. As soon as you texted me.” He chases the words with his nose and mouth, nuzzling across all the skin he can reach, mouthing other little clumsy lovebites across her shoulders.

Rey might’ve had something to say to this, but the dizziness of her heat carried off her words long ago, and his kisses feel good. His body is overwhelmingly large against hers, anyways, chest to back, grown huge since their childhood and brooking no argument. Chest gone broad, arms stretched long, wrapped around her stomach to hold her close, closer. One hand rests low to cup around where he sits deep inside her gut, almost certainly pushing new life into her.

 

“It’ll be us, together,” he murmurs, full of more excitement than she’s heard in months. She can feel him pulsing with righteous joy; the bleak, lonely future he anticipated has now been dispelled. The need he’s carried for so long has finally been satisfied to completion, cock and head and aching heart. Rey closes her eyes and hopes, perhaps foolishly, that she won’t have to drop out of high school.

 

Far away, the front door slams.

 

Ben curses, and Rey lets herself be rolled more fully beneath him, still stuck by the hips.

 

It’s Leia, standing there, the door lolling brazenly open from where Ben had carried Rey though it, quick and careless with need, fucking openly and not giving a damn about it. _Well, shit_. She looks exhausted, but Rey can’t look for long; Ben’s immediately pulling the sheets up over Rey to hide her, classic alpha-on-alpha, protecting his new mate from the threat. Rey’s breath is humid where it’s trapped against her face, sheets gauzing all the light dim and blue. She hardly has the strength to be embarrassed at this point, just full and sated and sleepy on his cock.

 

“Rey?” Leia’s voice asks. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yes,” Rey says. Ben’s heart is beating against her back like a drum. Silence reigns otherwise. The moment stretches for eternity; she wonders if it is possible to die, just from the sheer awkwardness.

 

“Can you move?” Leia finally asks, gravelly.

 

“No,” Ben says, moving his hips to tug gently between them as if to illustrate his point.

 

“When you can,” she starts, then clears her throat and tries again. “When you can, I’ll be in the living room.” Some shuffling, and the door clicks closed. A pause. The sound of Leia’s kitten heels receding down the hallway and into the depths of hell, or maybe oblivion.

 

A tumble of light and Ben’s beneath the sheets, too, and they’re right close to each other, nothing between them but skin, world devoid of absolutely anything else. He pulses inside her, feeling out the newness of their bond, tracing along the edges of her mind with the coarse fingers of his own. His smugness, his fear, self-loathing, insecurity, the bliss that _she wants him back_ —Rey gasps and twists.

 

“I’m so happy, Rey,” her cousin whispers, breathing into the hot darkness between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who waited so patiently to the end <3 i love you all 
> 
> and, as always, comments are adored


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